


Getting There

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Get Together, Idiots, M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 05:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10655850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: Variations on a question.A study on emotional idiocy.





	Getting There

**Author's Note:**

> A story in which Arthur asks questions, but doesn't say the right things when he needs to say them.

Arthur comes back to himself whilst hanging off the edge of a dizzyingly high cliff wall.

With climbing gear on, thank god, but this is still not a situation he is supposed to be in.

Eames is already slightly below him, placing his feet in small holes in the rock before looking up at Arthur.

“Eames!” Arthur yells over the roaring winds and his internal panic.

“Oh, there you are darling! You’ve been in shock for a minute — are you going to start climbing down now? We don’t have all day,” Eames replies brightly.

“Eames, how the fuck did we get here?” Arthur yells.

“Do you mean in the ‘is this reality sense’, or are you expressing your general frustrations at having me in your life?” Eames asks.

“Both,” Arthur says.

Eames chuckles, a sound Arthur only faintly hears.

“In that case, darling, this is reality, so please don’t jump to your early demise. It would actually kill you,” Eames says.

“Noted,” Arthur says while triple checking his gear. 

“On how precisely we got here, you lost the bet, darling,” Eames says.

“What bet?! I would never have agreed to this. Alcohol-induced bets do not count!” Arthur yells, before taking a step down.

“Irrelevant, the point is I won. It was either this or swimming with Great Whites,”  Eames says.

“Sharks are an endangered species and shouldn’t be exploited for tourist entertainment,” Arthur says, now next to Eames.

Eames beams at him. “Hence, the climbing. Let’s go, darling.”

“I hate you,” Arthur says, but follows suit.

“I know you do, love, I know.”

\--

Arthur kicks the frame of the bed twice, hard. Eames blinks awake on the second kick, groans and reaches automatically for his ribs, but is prevented from doing so by a cuff around his right hand, that fastens him to the bed frame. 

“Eames, how did we get here?” Arthur asks quietly.

They are in a hotel room Arthur doesn’t recognize. He is tied to a chair and Eames is on the bed, tied to the frame by one hand. Arthur can’t remember a thing since wrapping up the job yesterday — if it was yesterday. They might have been here longer than a day.

“I’m not sure,” Eames slurs. “Can’t remember.”

“Fuck,” Arthur says, and then he notices the blood on the sheets by Eames’ left side. “ _ Fuck.” _

“I agree with that sentiment,” Eames says, closing his eyes again.

“No! No, Eames, stay with me. Were you shot?” Arthur says quickly, trying to push his chair closer to Eames.

“Feels more like a knife wound,” Eames says. He is breathing shallowly.

“Fuck, you could be bleeding out right now.” Arthur tries to think fast, but his head is still muddy. Drugs.

“We need to know if this is reality,” he finally decides and spots his jacket, laid out over a side-table. “Eames, my jacket is next to you, any possibility you can throw the jacket to me with your free hand?”

“You mean the one on the side where I was fucking stabbed?” Eames bites out.

Arthur sighs. “Yes. I’m sorry, but we need to know. Do you have a better idea?”

“Yes, actually,“ Eames says. He moves his injured arm down to grab something out of his shirt pocket, hissing in pain.

“They left your totem with you?” Arthur asks, confused, when Eames pulls his poker chip out.

Eames plays with the chip in his free hand. “It’s reality,” he says.

“I don’t think we’re dealing with dreamshare people,” Arthur says, tugging harder on his ropes, he feels them loosen already, “I don’t think we are dealing with high-grade criminals at all. What I do think is that we were drugged and got ambushed.”

“That’s all nice, darling, but we still don’t know where we are and I need stitches and whiskey right about now,” Eames croaks.

Arthur has freed himself and cuts Eames ropes quickly and efficiently.

“Can you stand?” he asks, while checking the wound despite his protests.

It’s a fairly deep cut, a single long line, but not deep enough to do serious internal damage. It needs to be cleaned and stitched as soon as possible, but it is no great lethal threat. Arthur resolutely ignores the relief that conclusion brings him.

Eames stands unsteadily, and Arthur shakes his head.

“This isn’t going to work. Sit down. I’ll get us out of here quicker if I go in alone. I’ll come back in a second with the guards safely disposed off and a gun for safety. Yes?”

Eames starts to protest.

“Eames,” Arthur says, more gently than he intended, “you’re hurt, let me do this.”

Eames frowns but nods, and sits back down.

Arthur opens the door carefully. The halls are empty.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says.

Eames chuckles and Arthur closes the door on him.

\--

The streets are made of jelly, Arthur is sure of this. The lanterns that line the street shine in his eyes like pretty stars and everything feels good for a minute. He also needs to puke. 

“Eames,” Arthur groans in warning, the arms supporting him push them quickly into a narrow street and Arthur narrowly avoids soiling his shirt. His jacket is gone, though. 

“Cold,” Arthur says.

“I have your jacket here, darling, and a cab is coming, so we’ll be in warmer places soon,” Eames says, before throwing Arthur’s jacket to Arthur. Arthur’s reflexes are too slow and it falls to the ground, in the dirty snow.

“Eames,” Arthur whines, “Now it’s wet. Useless.”

Eames sighs and shrugs out of his own jacket, and places it around his shoulders. “You’ll owe me a date for this, love.”

“Why would I date you?” Arthur asks, confused.

“Because I’m a gentleman who is going to bring you home,” Eames replies.

“Eames?” there is an important question that needs asking, but Arthur can’t quite remember it.

“How, how did—” Arthur yawns, “we …”

“Get here?” Eames finishes.

Arthur nods and leans into the warmth of him. He should not be doing this, but he is too comfortable to care.

“You drank a bottle of whiskey on your own darling, I’m still not quite sure why,” Eames says.

“Oh, I didn’t … feel like thinking, tonight,” Arthur answers honestly. “It’s the anniversary.”

There is a pause.

“Of course,” Eames says softly, after a second. “May she rest in peace.”

“Yeah,” Arthur murmurs, “Eames? She was lovely, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, darling. She was.”

The cab stops next to them just as it starts snowing. Eames pushes him into the car gently; Arthur lets himself rest with his face against the cold window. He is holding Eames’ hand, and allows himself to enjoy it, for as long as he can.

“Love,” Eames starts, after a few minutes of silent travel, “you can come to me  _ before  _ you start drinking. You know that right?”

“No, I don’t,” Arthur says.

“Well, now you do,” Eames says softly as he tightens his hands around Arthur’s.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Arthur wakes up the next day in a hotel room alone, and doesn’t remember anything from the night before.

\--

“You owe me a date, darling,” Eames says as he saunters up to Arthur’s desk, weeks after Arthur’s forgotten night.

Arthur sighs. “I don’t date, and I don’t owe you anything.”

Eames hums as he slides up to Arthur, lays a warm, possessive hand on his hip.

Arthur doesn’t push him away. That is his very first mistake.

“Something more casual then?” Eames purrs, his breath hot on Arthur’s ear.

Arthur’s heart is pounding, and against all that is wise and dear to him, he twists them around and pushes Eames against the desk.

“Convenient,” Arthur says against Eames lips, before kissing the fucking life out of him. 

Arthur doesn’t know why he gave in today. He doesn’t know why he suddenly couldn’t stop himself anymore. He doesn’t ask himself what the hell he is thinking, what the hell he is doing here, in Eames' bed. He is exhilarated and happy and fucked out and can’t get himself to care, can’t get himself to regret.

That is his second mistake. 

\--

Eames texted him, so Arthur shows up.

It’s what they do. It’s normal.

Eames told him to  _ dress deathly _ , so Arthur does.

Eames said to meet him in the middle of a theme park and didn’t add any other information.

Arthur didn’t ask for reasons, specifications, because without knowing, he could allow himself to hope.

It turns out he is an idiot to do so. But that’s normal too.

“Eames, what are we doing here, and what the fuck are you wearing?” Arthur asks, frowning at the atrocity that is Eames right now.

He is wearing cowboy boots, and jeans. A thick leather belt with a golden star right above his crotch, a shirt that is way to blue and way too tight to be comfortable for both the wearer and those who have the rotten luck to lay their eyes upon it.

And, worst of all: a beige cowboy hat.

Arthur wants to both run away screaming and push Eames against a wall and—

No.

Eames beams at him. “I have to blend in, darling.”

Arthur looks around; there are a few tourists dressed up and a few staff members in costume. Eames, however, stands out like a sore thumb, so Arthur raises an unamused eyebrow at him.

Eames shrugs, “It’s the thought that counts.”

“No thought in the world can make up for this,” Arthur says and shakes his head. “I asked you a question. Answer it.”

“Come,” Eames says, motioning him over. Arthur follows him into a Western-themed bar.

There are groups of people sitting in booths, scarcely-clad women in period dress attending them with alcohol and, probably, sexual favours. Whatever the hell this club is, it isn’t suited for children.

“What is this place, Eames?” Arthur asks while following him. There are a few armed men sitting at a table in the back. Four of them heavily armed, another two are unclear but potentially dangerous anyway.

He doesn’t move his hand to his gun, but he is very aware of its presence, and of the knife strapped to his ankle, and the other guns at his sides.  _ Dress deadly,  _ indeed. 

“This is the Wild West, my darling Arthur,” Eames answers, “and coincidentally, the favourite hangout spot of a old friend of mine. An old friend who owes me money.”

Eames has led them to the bar, and orders them both whiskey.

“I’m here to be your bodyguard,” Arthur concludes. He shouldn’t have expected anything else, but still. “That’s all?”

A slow smile spreads on Eames’ face and he knocks back the whiskey in one go, leaning into Arthur’s space. “I would have done it myself, but your planning and safety checks rubbed off on me, love. It will be easy and quick, and I know for a fact your next job isn’t for a week yet. So, I thought we could have some fun after?”

Yes.

Arthur really should have known.

“So, I’m a bodyguard you want to fuck,” Arthur says. He can hear the bitterness in his own voice.  _ Fuck. _

Eames eyes widen, but he keeps his tone casually flirty. “If you want to pass this one, you only have to say so.”

They’ve been like this, are like this, for over a year now. The easy friendship has faded into a casual arrangement of both trust and sex.

It was enough at first, when the giddy excitement of being allowed to touch and fuck and look was enough to raise Arthur into easy contentment. But that novelty wore off quickly.

Most of their interactions, their friendly conversations, the things Arthur only treasured now when they were gone, had been derived from their eternal cat and mouse game.

Eames tried to seduce, with a smile, a flirt, a good joke, a listening ear. Arthur refused time and time again, with a rebuttal, a tease, an eye roll or sometimes, with a laugh.

These are the things Arthur misses now. Eames seduced him, and the moment Arthur gave in, he stopped with all of it.  

It is a text now, a place to be. The start and end of a job, or the calm hours in between.

The sex is casual, convenient, and so unbearably good that Arthur can’t stop, he doesn’t want to. 

He just wants  _ more _ .

He hasn’t spoken for too long. Eames is looking at him with calculating eyes, his easy smile gone.

“I’ll see if I feel like it,” Arthur says calmly, taking a slight sip of his drink. “Now, who do you want me to intimidate?”

Eames narrows his eyes at him. He doesn’t smile, his face is a blank slate that gives nothing away. He motions toward the armed men in the back.

“The one with the pink cowboy hat, they call him Papi. The bloody moron had me doing a few jobs, all in good faith, and decides not to pay up,” Eames says.

“In what world do you do jobs,  _ multiple, _ without payout?” Arthur asks, incredulous.

“Because, as you say, I’m a idiot,” Eames says with a wry smile, “and I’d thought we’d have some fun getting my due back.”

Ah. This is how it is.

“This is all fucking foreplay to you,” Arthur realizes out loud. He pushes himself off his barstool. “You got a fucking criminal gang leader in your debt so you could get off on me fixing your mess?” Arthur asks. He’s suddenly disgusted.

This is what they are now, what  _ he _ is to Eames: quality entertainment, a nice toy to summon and play with.

Eames looks away from Arthur’s glare. At least he seems to be abashed, maybe he has some shame.

Eames clears his throat.

“It is a bit weird, if you say it like that, but darling, I’d thought you’d like it, some adrenaline, some fucking. This is us, right?” Eames says, smiling smugly. Like he figured Arthur out, knows how he ticks, knows what he wants.

He really has no shame left, Arthur thinks. He wants to punch that smile off his face.

“Fuck you, Eames,” Arthur says and turns around. He walks out and doesn’t look back.

Eames can deal with his messes and his blue balls his– _ damn _ –self, Arthur thinks while he reschedules his plane ticket to tonight.

It will be a late and low-quality flight; business was already filled to the brim. Arthur just really wants to get out of here.

It doesn’t matter much anyway. Comfortable seats won’t erase the sick feeling inside him and he is bitterly looking forward to eleven hours of wallowing and self-pity.

After that, he can put himself back together in Cecile. Walk around the old streets and reshape himself back into the professional and competent point man he is. He’s let himself go these past months, fantasising about things that are not his to think about, imagining a reality that is not  _ there _ . He needs to regroup, collect and let go. Today was his wake-up call.

His detailed plans fall into deep and murky water as they always do, when a certain force of nature comes in and changes the game yet again.

Arthur is almost late for his flight, only because he let himself be. When he walks into the cabin most of the passengers have already sat down, bar a few who are pulling out blankets and snacks from the storage spaces overhead.

The seat next to Arthur’s is also filled, and when Arthur sees who is sitting there his stomach drops and his jaw clenches.

Eames is sitting in the window seat. Arthur can only see the tuft of his hair on the back of his head and the yellow of his shirt — he must have changed into another outfit, which should be irrelevant, but isn’t — and doesn’t turn around to look for Arthur, he‘s just waiting.

This is all incredibly unfair.

“No,” Arthur bites out quietly, when he finally gets to his seat.

He keeps his face civil, a polite smile so not to disturb the people around them. They are two strangers having a friendly discussion. Nothing more.

Arthur knows Eames can read his rage in the tilt of his head, his frustration in the light in his eyes and his desperation in the slant of his mouth. He knows that Eames knows that he doesn’t want this. But Eames doesn’t budge.

“Come sit, darling,” Eames says, charming and calm and  _ lovely. _

Suddenly, there is only bone deep exhaustion, an aching tiredness that prevents Arthur from leaving. He can’t run from this. He can’t run from Eames.

He tries one more time. “There is no need to drag this out for eleven hours, Eames. Just tell me it’s over and go.”

Eames finally drops his pretences and his smile goes with them _.  _ Piercing eyes meet Arthur’s and Arthur doesn’t even dare to blink.

“Do you want this to be over, love?” Eames asks, neutrally. There nothing in his voice that’s notable other than how soft it is, how Arthur almost dares to call it hurt.

Arthur tears his eyes away.

It is answer enough.

“Then sit down,” Eames says, not unkindly, “We need to talk about this, for once.”

Arthur sighs. He doesn’t know if it’s resignation or relief that he is feeling, but he feels less tense, lighter. Light enough to say: “Okay, but I get the window seat.”

Eames mouth quirks up, the first real honest smile Arthur has seen today and he basks in the warmth of it.

“Of course, darling.”

\--

Eleven hours is a long time to talk, so they don’t. The first half an hour becomes a silence neither of them seemed to want to break, a deceivingly tranquil equilibrium before whatever they are, or were, will have to be in the open. The calm before the storm.

Arthur hates to use such an unoriginal metaphor, but at this time, it really feels like the plane is whisking them off to an uncertain future. That this conversation will decide if they will exit this plane together or apart.

This talk,  _ the _ talk, is something Arthur knows they should have had way before now. He should have started it the moment he saw their friendship slip through his fingers, replaced with almost impersonal fucking. He should have told Eames how he felt, broke it off there. To continue this arrangement on false pretences was breaking a certain trust Arthur never intended to break. He shouldn’t let his cowardice dictate his decisions.

“I’ll start with apologizing,” Arthur says, after the flight attendant has come by with drinks and Eames bought expensive and crappy airplane wine for them.

“I’m the one who was the dickhead here, darling. I shouldn’t have presumed,” Eames says.

Arthur shakes his head. “How can you know what I want, if I don’t actually ever tell you? Yes, you presumed wrong and that was a mistake on your part, but I can’t blame you when I’ve never actually told you the truth.”

Arthur hears Eames take a quick breath, but doesn’t look at him. 

The last slivers of anger are gone, resigned anxiousness has taken their place. Arthur keeps looking through the window, to the free sky outside. He thinks that falling through the open air would actually be less scary than saying these words out loud.

“We started this … arrangement, on the principles of convenience, didn’t we?” Arthur asks.

“That was what I thought, yeah, going by what you said about it from time to time,” Eames agrees.

“Well, I said so, but it’s not what I actually want,” Arthur says before taking a deep breath, “I want us — wanted us to be more than this for a long time. I’m sorry I didn’t say so earlier, and I’m sorry I let my resentment of the situation I caused fester by not talking to you and I’m just — sorry.”

There is only silence, after. For Arthur, it feels like hours, days,  _ years _ before he feels Eames taking his hand, shocking him into looking at his face.

And Eames is—

Eames is smiling, softly, carefully.

Whatever Arthur expected — disgust, anger, pity — it was not this, this smile, undeniable in its hesitance and happiness, and Arthur is stunned and hopeful.

“Oh, darling,” Eames says softly, tightening his hands around Arthur’s and Arthur tries to keep breathing like Eames’ next words don’t hold the power to make or break his heart.

“I’m so sorry I never asked,” Eames says, and it is enough to know, for Arthur to finally see, what has been his this entire time.

“I’m in love with you,” Arthur blurts out, logical brain functions melted in the face of this smile and the wave of relief and realisation that overwhelms him.

“I’m so glad I know that now, darling,” Eames says before pulling him in, kissing him.

It’s a just kiss, like they so many have shared. But now, with knowing, and knowing Eames knows, it feels like their first all over again.

Eames pulls back, kisses Arthur’s forehead softly. “I should have told you sooner, too, love, I love you too.”

\--

Arthur closes the door behind him and resets the alarm system to the right calibrations. Now that they’ve chosen to use the Paris apartment as their main, it became something that needed protecting. Not something he can jump ship from, like he would treat his spaces before. 

When Arthur turns around there is someone sitting on the sofa. Arthur curses and pulls out his gun, aims and–

“Fuck, Eames how did you get in here?” Arthur exclaims. Eames is one of the best thieves in history but this apartment is supposed to be safe, for both of them. Oh, wait.

“You gave me the code, darling,” Eames says laughing. He stands up and walks towards Arthur, takes the gun from the hand at his side and puts it on the table in front of the couch.

Arthur rubs a hand over his face. “I forgot about that, for a moment,” he says honestly.

“You forgot about asking me to move in?” Eames asks, but he is smiling, he didn’t take offence. Arthur drops his shoulders in relief.

“No, yes, kind of,” Arthur murmurs against Eames’ lips, before kissing him softly. “It’s not something I’m used too, coming home to someone. I’m still surprised that you agreed,” Arthur says.

“Oh, love,” Eames chuckles before pulling him in for another, longer, kiss.

Arthur pulls back reluctantly after a while. “I’m covered in days of travel sweat and job muck, Eames. A shower, before this progresses, okay?”

“Can I join you?” Eames asks, leering.

Arthur smiles. “Of course you can, always.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Paris is a hot summery mess this evening, so after their adventures in the shower and preparations for bed, both of them cuddle up with nothing more than boxers on.

Arthur knows that after they’ve fallen asleep, the heat will drive them apart like it does most nights. But for now he enjoys them lying together, content and happy.

Or at least, Arthur is. Eames is silent, almost pensive. Arthur let him be silent after their shower together, but now the quiet is slowly working towards a fear. A silent Eames is something quite uncharacteristic, and it tells Arthur something is wrong.

Arthur extracts himself from Eames’ arms to be able to look at him. He balances himself on one elbow and drops his head on his hand.

Eames is watching the movement and sighs. “I suppose I’ve been silent for long enough?”

“Yeah, can you tell me what’s wrong, please?” Arthur asks, with his free hand he loosely holds Eames’ hand, kissing its knuckles while waiting for Eames to answer. 

“You have another job tomorrow,” Eames says, “and I know it’s not your fault the previous job ran over schedule but there are consequences. We’ve not seen each other for a long time, and when you go tomorrow, it will be the longest time apart since we’ve been together.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says.

Eames smiles at him. “I’m not mad, or frustrated. I just miss you, that’s all.”

“You know I can’t cancel this job, Eames,” Arthur sighs, guilt a heavy stone in his gut.

“I’m not asking you to,” Eames says.

“Oh, what are you asking me?” Arthur asks, and waits.

Eames doesn’t respond for a while, he’s biting his lip, nervous about something.

“Eames, do I need to book you a seat next to me on the plane or can we do it here, comfortably in bed?”

Eames chuckles. “Yeah, well about that … Can I come with you, love, on this job?”

Arthur frowns. “We don’t need a forger, I would have pulled you in otherwise. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do, I don’t mean as work. I just mean joining you. I could lounge around Stockholm for a bit, see the sights. And most importantly, see you when you’re free.”

Arthur has to stop himself from blurting out a no right then and there. Eames can’t join him and do nothing; Arthur would be focused on the job, not Eames. It’s most certainly exhaustion from the previous job and the traveling that leaves Arthur vulnerable to the worst-case scenarios his mind starts to spin.

Arthur succinctly sums up his fears in one sentence. “You’d be bored,” he says,  _ and then you‘d leave _ . 

There must have been something in his face that betrays him because Eames instantly gathers him up to his chest and for a second they just breathe together.

“I’ll keep myself busy, pet,” Eames says finally, a lovely smile on his face that Arthur can’t help but trust.

“Maybe I’ll spin a quick con in the area, and gamble all I’ll earn away,” Eames continues. “I’m not asking you to change your work focus to keep me entertained, love, if you really don’t want me there I won’t be mad. It’s just … I can mope around here and miss you. Or I can waste time there and sleep in the same bed as you every night. I prefer the latter.”

Arthur nods, and buries his face in Eames’ chest. It sounds good, it sounds great actually, to have Eames around when the tides of the job turn calm and he can have some time off. 

Arthur yawns. “You’ll have to book your own ticket, I’m too comfortable right now.”

“Okay, darling,” Eames says and gets out of bed.

Arthur falls asleep to the sound of Eames clicking and typing on his laptop.

His last thought is a happy one, on how it feels like their life is finally coming together, happily, fully, and stable. 

\--

They both fall into the bed smiling. Arthur recovers first and twists them around, so he has Eames caged under him. Eames follows his movements until they are kissing, first quickly, desperately, but soon more softly and slowly, just taking the time to enjoy each other fully.  

After a while, Arthur pulls back and lays down his head on Eames’ chest, his shirt still slightly wet from the champagne accident. Arthur thinks he spies some cake on his jacket too and sighs happily, overjoyed with the memories they made today.

“Eames,” Arthur murmurs, before shifting to be able to look at Eames’ face.

Eames isn’t looking at him; he is staring at the golden band around his ring finger in wonderment. Arthur prods him until he is given full attention.

“Eames, how did we end up here?” Arthur asks softly.

Eames’ smile broadens and he gathers Arthur in his arms. “I asked you to marry me and you said  _ yes _ ,” he says, eyes twinkling, “and then we actually went and got married, darling.  _ We’re married now _ .”

Eames says it with an almost childish wonder, like he can’t believe the truth of it. 

Arthur can relate, so he smiles, dimpling. “I love you.”

Eames pulls him up and kisses him again.

“I know you do, love. I do too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was a thing?
> 
> An experiment with emotion, time-jumps and confrontation. It needs a bit more practice but this was a try nonetheless. 
> 
> Bless Brookebrond, Pigfarts and Katy for beta'ing and proofreading, thank you all so much.


End file.
